Don't keep me in your mind,
Instead the flickers of the sky
In your eye, on the way to a shrine,
Beside the telephone line.
Let the king speak
Through a mongrel's beak
And havoc wreak upon a unchecked freak,
Now a car stops in the parking lot
Her touches the tyres jot.
Stubborn kids on mountains tall
Drink the miner's wine, to deaths they fall,
But did they ask the coaly gasp
Of the amber laughs in an anxious grasp.
The drawers flung in the burning sun
With a heart that mites couldn't turn
And even though the train didn't show
Letters fall off pigeons, dangle in the snow
And then we leave a light off for the neon crow.
Over time, our songs morph into this reiteration of busted roofs and the flying wheels above the cable lines. Sometimes, an ambitious plastic bag latches onto the clothesline and as your wish to set it free often comes at a price. Human love is eternally divisible, given to the most unsuspecting soul on the mass transit or the greatest mismatch since universe and life.
We are home to fear and caution, but more is the fact that this is some plot of destruction. Where they lay out white sheets against the city lights, in the infant storm and narrate that favorite story in black, white and mute.
You see every moment then becomes a previous and next to that one, where those threads of the blanket touch some curved corner of your lip and then another.
Everyone sees it twice, the yellow cross on the old shop that sells you medicine. I'm scared right now when I write this, that this needle would fall into a haystack and deprive me of an urgency or that it would push into my veins and put me down beside the pig sty in a pool of piss. But in between, it would be the magic of a daily wager's trade, a writer's forever lost grace, some fragments of a distant star, a dead astronaut's unleased car. But it doesn't, because I didn't.
Instead the flickers of the sky
In your eye, on the way to a shrine,
Beside the telephone line.
Let the king speak
Through a mongrel's beak
And havoc wreak upon a unchecked freak,
Now a car stops in the parking lot
Her touches the tyres jot.
Stubborn kids on mountains tall
Drink the miner's wine, to deaths they fall,
But did they ask the coaly gasp
Of the amber laughs in an anxious grasp.
The drawers flung in the burning sun
With a heart that mites couldn't turn
And even though the train didn't show
Letters fall off pigeons, dangle in the snow
And then we leave a light off for the neon crow.
Over time, our songs morph into this reiteration of busted roofs and the flying wheels above the cable lines. Sometimes, an ambitious plastic bag latches onto the clothesline and as your wish to set it free often comes at a price. Human love is eternally divisible, given to the most unsuspecting soul on the mass transit or the greatest mismatch since universe and life.
We are home to fear and caution, but more is the fact that this is some plot of destruction. Where they lay out white sheets against the city lights, in the infant storm and narrate that favorite story in black, white and mute.
You see every moment then becomes a previous and next to that one, where those threads of the blanket touch some curved corner of your lip and then another.
Everyone sees it twice, the yellow cross on the old shop that sells you medicine. I'm scared right now when I write this, that this needle would fall into a haystack and deprive me of an urgency or that it would push into my veins and put me down beside the pig sty in a pool of piss. But in between, it would be the magic of a daily wager's trade, a writer's forever lost grace, some fragments of a distant star, a dead astronaut's unleased car. But it doesn't, because I didn't.
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